


Days Like This

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: I'm trying to branch out, Leave a comment with your prompt and I'll do my best to fill it, Multi, Open to all pairings - not just Whizzer/Marvin like I usually only do, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, requests are open
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: A brief look at the day-to-day lives of homosexuals, women with children, short insomniacs, nervous wrecks, and a teen tiny band.:: - ::Or, The Obligatory Requests/Prompts-Based Fic That No One Asked For.





	1. REQUESTS ARE OPEN

I thought this would be a Cool and Fun Idea since I've been spamming the Falsettos tag for so long, I might as well start writing one-shots people actually want. But yeah, you know how this thing works: you leave a comment with a prompt, and I'll fill it to the best of my (albeit limited) ability. I have other stuff that I'm working on (*coughs* more like procrastinating *cough*) and I've kinda hit a creative roadblock, writing-wise. I thought this would be a mutually beneficial way to help me get out of the slump while also entertaining readers at the same time. In addition, I think this is a great way for me to develop these characters further.

I don't know how long this story will be nor the duration it will take me to fill each prompt. I've decided to just wing it and see what happens (famous last words, I hypothesize). Of course, this will continue as long as you guys keep giving me requests, so please leave a comment down below with a prompt. It can be AU, canon, pre-canon - whatever you desire. Also, and I cannot stress this enough: it does not have to be Marvin/Whizzer. It can be like Mendel/Trina or Cordelia/Charlotte or not even relationship-centric at all. I feel like I've been limiting myself as to not step out of my comfort zone, so be my guest to request stories that are outside the norm for me as a writer.

(I feel like I overly explained this simple concept, but I tend to do that with everything so I feel like I must stay On Brand™).


	2. Marvin/Whizzer - Flower Shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marvin becomes fixated on a smart-mouthed, arrogant, _pretty_ florist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Aleis. This was a great prompt and hopefully I did it justice??

While Marvin ignores the thick tension in the room, Trina simply ignores Marvin, keeping her scathing gaze locked onto her plate and nibbling at her steak dispassionately without saying a word. Seated beside her, Jason seems oblivious to the tautness in the air (or, more likely, has become so used to it that he doesn’t feel the need to call any attention to it) and keeps his eyes locked on that damned Rubik’s Cube in his hand, ignoring the food on his plate and his bitter parents altogether.

Marvin makes vain attempts to stimulate conversation ("So, Trina, how was your day?" "Your boss give you a hard time?" "How's the Applebaum's doing? You're friends with the wife, right?"), but after only receiving curt, barbed replies, he slams his fist down on the wooden surface of the table, causing both Trina and Jason to flinch, "Dammit, I already said _I'm sorry,_ okay? What more do you want from me?"

Trina sends him a pointed look and rests a hand on Jason's shoulder, gritting out, "Not. Now."

Marvin shovels one more bite of cabbage and steak in his mouth before pushing his plate away and rising from his seat, adding spitefully, "The steak was over-cooked." He storms away, leaving the two to finish their meals in ease. He takes refuge in the den, bitterly wondering how his life ended up this way—him being treated like an obtrusive stranger in his own house.

Trina joins him an hour later, her face tear-stricken but determined.  He hates when she tries to play the role of _broken, helpless housewife_ in order to make him feel shitty about himself. Distantly, he remembers a time when she would play any role he chose for her, so desperate for his approval that she would do or say _anything_ to appease him. But that brief time of reprieve has flown by, exposing Trina as an old, fickle wretch of a thing. He can't say shit though; he's the same damn way.

"A husband," She says quietly, and at Marvin's blank look, she clarifies, "You asked me what I want from you. I want a _husband_."

"Well, congratulations," Marvin rolls his eyes, motioning to the ring on his finger, "Was our wedding not memorable enough for you?"

"I could say the same to you. You were drunk the entire night!" Trina's voice had crescendo to a shout, but then she flickers her gaze upstairs—always mindful of Jason—and lowers her tone again, gritting through clenched teeth, "You have not been a _husband_ to me, Marvin, nor have you been a _father_ to Jason."

Marvin scoffs, his defenses rising higher, "Then what the hell have I been doing these past ten years, huh?"

" _Whatever you want—_ and _damn_ the consequences," Trina lets out a deep breath and steadies her voice, smiling as if she’s not currently on the verge of tears, "You know, it’s probably my own damn fault. I let you do anything you want without as much as a single complaint. Hell, maybe I hoped you’d grow out of it. But you're just so _selfish_ , Marvin—always have been. And I just..." She sucks in another quick, steadying breath, finishing softly, "I'm tired, Marvin. I can’t juggle all of your conflicting moods at a drop of a hat anymore. I mean, you can be _so sweet_ one moment, and then the next...." She laughs, but it’s dark and scathing, "When's the last time you even bought me _flowers_ , anyway? _Our third date?"_

"Is that what you want?" Marvin demands, genuinely curious, "Is that what will make you _happy_?"

"Oh, I don't know," Trina snaps with a dismissive wave, and Marvin can see the energy to fight draining from her small body, "I haven't been happy in so long. Hell, maybe it will." She always gives in to him eventually. She'll scream and gripe and send him daggers with her icy glare, but all it takes is one soft look from Marvin before she buckles. It used to amuse him; now, it just makes him disappointed and disgusted.

He walks toward her and pulls her into his arms, kissing the crook of her neck and whispering, "You know I love you." And even if she doesn't, Trina nods anyway, resigned to the grave she's dug herself. Marvin wishes he could be so docile in his own unhappiness.

:: - :: 

The next day, Marvin stops by the first flower shop he sees, determined to melt the growing ice that has begun to spread over his marriage. The door lets out a shrill chime and he hears a muffled, "I'll be with you in a second," coming from the closed door at the back of the store. Marvin doesn't respond and simply fingers his wallet in his pocket.

The intimidatingly large selection of types and fragrances overwhelms him as he glances around the small shop. Vainly, he tries to remember what Trina's favorite color is. At a loss, Marvin just resolves to get her a standard dozen of red roses like he's seen in all those movies.

"Can I help you?" At the man's voice, Marvin turns around and opens his mouth, his order on the tip of his tongue. But then he catches sight of the man's pretty eyes and the curve of his jawline and his pink lips, and his brain suddenly short circuits.

"Um," Marvin says unintelligently, which is the exact _opposite_ impression he wants to make, "Do you—work here?" The man gives him a patronizing smirk and gestures to the logo on his (somehow tight-fitting) apron.

"Okay, right," Marvin averts his gaze, clearing his throat and regaining his composure, "I, uh, would like to order a dozen red roses."

"Hot date?" The man guesses, and _great,_ small talk—that's _exactly_ what he wants to waste time doing. However, it does give him more time to look at the man's distracting mouth, so he can't complain too much.

"More like a plea for forgiveness." Marvin corrects, affronted when the man's aforementioned distracting mouth twists critically.

"Then you do _not_ want red roses," The man informs him, shaking his head, "You want something softer and more mild. Like," He brushes past him and moves toward the array of different flowers, mulling them over before finally plucking one, "Purple hyacinth."

Marvin shrugs, his brow furrowing, "What's the difference between the two?"

The man gives him a suffering look, like Marvin's somehow being _dense_ , "A _big_ one. Purple hyacinth means being sorry while red roses means that you're in love—or, well, just plain horny."

"Now I _know_ you're just bullshitting me," Marvin snickers condescendingly, shaking his head, "So what is it really, huh? Do the hyacinths cost more or something?"

"Flowers have _meanings_ ," The man claims snootily, giving him the once over and immediately turning his nose up, "Though you don't seem like the type to understand that."

Marvin cocks his head and squares his shoulders, biting back, "And what _type_ is that?"

"Arrogant, self-centered know-it-all, " He lists off easily, grinning at the stunned look on the other's face, "Stop me if you've heard this all before, but if I had to guess, I think you have."

"Do you make a habit of insulting your customers?" Marvin demands, "That's not a wise business decision."

"You're still here." The man points out, shrugging. Marvin has the urge to walk right out of the store right then and there, wipe that smug smirk off the arrogant man's face once and for all and never look back. But dammit if he doesn’t love a man that has a bite to go along with his bark, if he doesn’t love the blood pumping through his veins and the rush building in his stomach. Marvin is dying for a good, drawn out fight—one that Trina refuses to give him.

So instead he holds his gaze for a second longer than necessary and suddenly declares, "I'll take a dozen of those purple hyacinths." The man's smile widens, and quite distinctly, Marvin realizes why that smile seems so familiar; it's that of a shark who has just smelled blood in the water.

As he rings him up, Marvin asks, "What's your name?"

"Whizzer." The man tells him as he carefully packages the flowers, "Yours?"

"Marvin." And as they make eye contact over the counter, Marvin hopes he doesn't imagine that vague sense of interest lining Whizzer's critical gaze.

He returns home and thrusts the bouquet at Trina. And her smile doesn't make his stomach tie in knots like Whizzer's did, but it makes him smile back at her, and Marvin supposes that that has to be enough. 

:: - :: 

Marvin tries to put Whizzer and his sharp smiles out of his mind, but the very next week, he finds himself once again walking into that stupid flower shop. Whizzer is bracing himself with his elbows on the counter, a long strip of hair fallen out of place as he gazes down at some magazine. He takes one brief glance at the entrance and snorts when he sees Marvin, "Did you fuck up _again_? Man, you must be some piece of work."

"No," Marvin denies, looking around, "Just thought it'd be a nice gesture." Licking his lips, he asks innocently, "Any recommendations?"

Whizzer finally straightens his posture and pushes his hair back, the movement making Marvin's mouth go dry, "Who's the lucky guy?" And Marvin's blood suddenly runs cold.

"It's not a _guy_ ," Marvin sputters, his face heating up, "I have a _wife_. Why would you think—I am _not_..." He can't bring himself to say it, not even quietly inside the barriers of his own mind.

Whizzer looks surprised at the news before his face suddenly clears with understanding, "Ah. So it's like that." He looks at Marvin almost like he pities him, like he can see through every facade that Marvin has spent his entire life carefully constructing and hiding behind.

"It's not like _anything_ ," He deflects coldly, glancing around in a vain attempt to derail this line of conversation. Blindly, he goes over and fingers the first flower he can get his grasp on, pinning one of the petals between his two fingers and asking, "What does this mean?"

"Excuse me?" Whizzer walks over to him, standing so close that it takes half of Marvin's concentration just to remember to _breathe_.

"All flowers have meaning, right?" He throws the words back in Whizzer's face, demanding, "Well, what about this one?"

"Hmm," Stepping closer than necessary and intentionally brushing his body against Marvin's, Whizzer plucks the yellow flower and gives it a sniff, "Hibiscus. It means a delicate beauty."

He turns his head to look back at Marvin, their faces inches away from each other. Blood rushes to Marvin's head, but before he can do something stupid and reckless, Whizzer holds the flower between them, beckoning softly, "Take a whiff, Marvin." The scent is lightly perfumed and airy, but Marvin hardly pays that much attention to it, too focused on the way Whizzer's eyes widen when he leans closer and presses the flower to his nose.

"I'll take some of those." And he only stutters a little bit, which is pretty impressive, if he does say so himself.

Whizzer smiles and delicately presses a hand to Marvin's cheek, holding him in place. For a wild, anticipative second, Marvin thinks he's going to kiss him, but Whizzer just leans in and tucks the flower behind Marvin's ear, murmuring, "This one's on the house."

Whizzer leans away then, smirking at him like he's proven some sort of _point_. It takes a few seconds before Marvin realizes that he's being made fun of, but as he tries to push him away, Whizzer grabs his wrists and says with emphasis, "It takes one to know one, alright?" And Marvin had assumed (or maybe _hoped_ would be the correct term) so, but hearing Whizzer _say it_ causes the once playfully nipping butterflies in his stomach to start devouring his insides.

"What?" Marvin laughs a little, playing dumb, "A delicate beauty?"

Whizzer doesn't give him a break, saying evenly, "If that's what you want to call it." 

Marvin holds his gaze longer than he should have, so he tries to make up for it by saying pointedly, "I need to get home. My wife probably has dinner done by now." Whizzer lets him go, watching as he stumbles over his feet on the way out of the door.

He makes it halfway to his house before he remembers the damn flower in his hair. Ashamed of himself, he gives it to Trina and tells her of its meaning. She laughs and kisses his cheek, the same one that Whizzer held only an hour beforehand. Unintentionally, he jerks away a little as if her lips burned.

:: - ::

After that, he starts swinging by the flower shop almost every other day, learning the hours of business when Whizzer barely throws him a glance as he helps other customers and the lonely hours of just the two of them in the close confines of the flower shop. Making himself useful, he helps Whizzer fix the flickering lights in the shop and gets the air conditioner to work again just as the nice spring weather slowly but inevitably melts under the summer heat. And it's ridiculous how he becomes so fixated on the smart-mouthed, arrogant florist, fighting with him one second and then blatantly flirting with him the next. He should feel ashamed of himself, but Trina's words always come back to him: _"You do whatever you want—and damn the consequences."_

Marvin's fiddling with Whizzer's newest installment, bright purple ivy, when Whizzer finally seems to have had enough of these games and kisses him. Rather than pull away like he _knows_ he should, he immediately deepens the kiss and pulls the man closer, letting the ivy flowers fall to the floor. Whizzer fucks him on the cold dirty floor of that place, but Marvin doesn't notice the dust staining his clothes—just clutches desperately onto the man and demands brokenly, _faster, harder, oh please God._

When they finish, Marvin rolls over and looks dispassionately at the soiled ivy flowers that he’s crushed under his weight, "Sorry about that." And Whizzer laughs and laughs into his shoulder, refusing to tell Marvin what the hell is so funny. It pisses him off at first, but then Whizzer raises his head and smiles at him, and, well, with a face like that, a man can get away with just about anything. 

:: - ::

"Fuck!" Marvin curses, dropping the shears as he immediately applies pressure to his pricked thumb.

Rolling his eyes, Whizzer puts his own scissors away and walks toward him. He takes Marvin's thumb in his hand and carefully inspects it before announcing, "It's okay. The thorn isn't stuck in there. It must have just nicked you.” At Marvin’s pout, Whizzer scoffs, “Don't be such a baby."

"Roses are overrated," Marvin declares sullenly, "They're a hell of a lot more trouble than they're worth."

Whizzer gives Marvin a pointed look before returning his attention back to the array of roses, plucking one of the petals and admitting, "What can I say? I like pretty things." And though they haven't been doing this for long (a few weeks, by his count), Marvin knows to kiss him then, slow and sweet.

:: - :: 

"Get her violets this time," Whizzer tells him as Marvin slips his pants back on, and at Marvin's questioning expression, he explains with a smug grin, "They symbolize faithfulness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just so you know, the flower ivy symbolizes wedded love and fidelity).


	3. Mendel, Whizzer, and Jason - Blended Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dad-Off of epic proportions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to study for a test this afternoon, but I wrote this instead. Clearly, I have my priorities sorted.  
> This is dedicated to DemonicDetective.

Up until recently, Mendel never really saw himself as "father material." It's not that he doesn't  _like_  kids—really, he admires their sense of blatant honesty and cherishes the purity of their minds not yet besmirched by political agendas. It's just that—well, he  _worked a lot_ , you know. And yeah,  _sometimes_  he would think of marriage and children in more than an abstract way, but then he would ignore the interested stir in his heart and kept  _working_  because that's what he was good at and something he could never fail in.

For years, work had been his passion—something that Mendel could retreat into and isolate himself when the world became too loud, too cruel. It wasn't until he met Trina that he distanced himself from that toxic coping mechanism—wasn't until he married her that he suddenly became forced into the role of father figure to Jason.

And he  _loves_  the kid to pieces, honestly. His raw perception on life, his biting cynicism and questioning of authority, his deathly allergies and poor upper body strength—all of which remind Mendel too eerily of himself. Trina and Jason have added bold streaks of color into his once black-and-white life, and he surprises himself by fitting into the role of Family Man more easily than he had ever anticipated. All those years spent without them in his life seem blurry and out of focus now, like marrying Trina and finally making a home of their own have awoken him from a long, disorienting sleep. But before all that, Mendel had _never_  wanted to be a father.

Perhaps this was due to his liberal views on such things as  _rules_  and  _discipline,_ both of which each child needs but Mendel would be unable to provide. Perhaps it had a little to do with his own upbringing (He remembers his own father—his putrid scent of alcohol and other women’s perfume, that chain-smoking cough of his that perpetually rattled in his throat—and develops a sour taste in his mouth). Whatever the case, Mendel never envisioned a future with the stereotypically two-point-five kids and white picket fence.

But the more he helps Jason with his homework and gives him advice about girls who never notice him and comforts him when Marvin and Trina go off the deep end, Mendel starts to see the whole appeal of this parent thing.

:: - ::

Still not really accustomed to social gatherings, he lingers awkwardly in the living room which is sparsely populated by Jason and the neighborhood kids. Trina is entertaining their adult guests in the den, and while he  _wants_  to support his wife, Mendel refuses to have another stilted _"Sure is a hot one today"_  conversation with Trina's friends' husbands that are equally as miserable as he is. He really needs to get back to  _work_ , even though the thought of it makes Mendel's stomach turn. It's ironic that just as he gains a family, he loses interest in the one thing that brought him comfort once.

"Well, I was just propositioned by Stacy Turner in the kitchen," Mendel jumps as— _of all people_ —Whizzer casually walks up to him, "I didn't know she was  _blind_."

Mendel blinks, correcting him, "She's not."

"So she's seen me shamelessly grabbing Marvin's ass all throughout the party and  _still_  thought I was straight?" 

"It's because we live in a heteronormative society." Mendel responds, struggling.

"God,  _stop it._  You sound just like Marvin," Whizzer groans, causing Mendel to prickle, "He says big words he knows I don't understand to sound smart, too. And I  _just_  fled the den to escape him, so if you wouldn't mind toning down that 'smug intellectual' vibe of yours—that'd be great." Indignation rises within Mendel though he knows to not let it show on his face. Whizzer loves getting a rise out of people—almost as much as he likes sex—but Mendel refuses to give him the satisfaction. 

He doesn't  _hate_  Whizzer. Sure, he's rude and crass and sometimes a smarmy little shit, but he's friendly enough and makes boring dinner parties like this interesting with his biting commentary. 

"How's your life been?" Mendel asks after a lull in silence.

Whizzer rolls his eyes, "Like I'm going to tell you. I'm not drunk enough to not care about being psychoanalyzed yet."

"I don't need to psychoanalyze you," He reminds him pointedly, "When he was a patient, Marvin was very forthcoming with information."

"What, like my dick measurements?" Whizzer snorts into his glass of cheap champagne, "So much for a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"Who ever said Marvin was a gentleman?" Whizzer mockingly toasts to that.

Though the children are gathered towards the opposite end of the room, they both hear Jason's voice carry through the air, "Yeah, I've got  _two_  dads." 

A funny little feeling flutters in Mendel's stomach, a smile crossing his face despite his best efforts to smother it. Jason has never called him  _Dad_  before, and Mendel has never asked him to. But  _apparently_  their frequent interactions haven't thawed just  _Mendel's_  chilled heart. Suddenly, he distantly notices that  _Whizzer_  is preening a little also, and that warm feeling in his stomach turns cold.

Obviously Marvin makes  _one_ , so that means that the second "dad" would be...

Simultaneously, Mendel and Whizzer turn their gazes on each other. He recognizes each flitting emotion in Whizzer's eyes as the ones also brewing in his own gut: defensiveness, pride, superiority, and the smallest tinge of insecurity.

Suddenly, the once light and nearly friendly atmosphere between the two men changes into something  _heavier_.

:: - ::

When he subsequently becomes even nicer and more laid back with Jason, Mendel pretends that he doesn't know his own intentions. Because well, he can't just ask Jason  _point-blank,_  right? He has a little bit more tact than that. And, even if he did ask him, how  _embarrassing_  would it be if he really was referring to  _Whizzer_? Mendel has seen them interact countless of times, and they've gotten along better than Jason has with either of his real parents. But Jason couldn't possibly see  _Whizzer_  as a father figure. The man has no  _integrity_ , no sense of  _decency_  or  _tact_  or—or...

But Jason doesn't _care_ about that. Kids his age only care about someone they can brag about to their friends; someone who is—well, for lack of a better word— _cool_. And Whizzer  _is_  cool, he isn't that bitter to deny that; he also can't kid himself by claiming he's just as suave.

Oh Christ, what if he was talking about Whizzer?

"The best bonding time is right before bedtime," Mendel remarks offhandedly (or at least trying to appear that way) the next time he and Whizzer see each other at the snack line during one of Jason's baseball games, "I tuck him into bed every night; it gives us time for our nightly heart-to-hearts."

Rather than look envious, Whizzer's mouth curls in condescension, "You make him have a bedtime? Whenever he's over at ours on the weekends, I let him stay up as late as he wants."

"Well, it just goes to show how more responsible I am." Mendel bites back, though he feels his carefully constructed plan start to crumble already.

Whizzer smirks derisively, "Yeah, Jason really cares about how  _responsible_  you are. He's always bragging to his friends about how you always use your turning signal like a fucking  _badass_." Mendel opens his mouth to bite back a retort, but Marvin walks up and intrudes on their conversation.

"What's taking so long?" He demands, as if the slow moving line is _their_ fault, "Trina and I have  _very_  limited topics of polite conversation. She started talking about her  _day_ , Whizzer. I haven't had to stomach that long-winded interaction since I was  _married_  to her."

"You were married to her?" Mendel says sardonically, feigning shock, "I had no idea. You haven't reminded anyone of that in the last...oh, I don't know,  _hour_?"

Marvin gives him a long suffering look, "You know, I liked it better when you just nodded along and agreed with everything I said."

"That's when you paid me." Mendel reminds him, "Weirdly, I don't nod along and agree when you complain about my wife for  _free_."

"If you guys are going to have a pissing contest, at least go to the bathroom before you whip your dicks out," Whizzer forcibly moves Marvin to assume his place in line, "Now I am going to watch Jason play ball while you guys get me some Twizzlers and a Pepsi." Before either can protest, he saunters away from the two bickering men.

"Why do you put up with him?" Mendel wonders aloud.

Marvin tears his eyes away from Whizzer's ass and smirks, "Take a guess." And Mendel is ending  _that_  conversation  _right now._

:: - :: 

When Mendel hears about Whizzer's secret  _plan_ , he decides to stop pulling punches.

"What is  _he_  doing here?" Whizzer demands as Jason  _and_  Mendel find him at the campsite.

"I wanted to come along," Mendel says with a forced smile, eying daggers at Whizzer while Jason isn't looking, "The more the merrier, right?"

Whizzer looks about as merry as someone who has just gotten a colonoscopy.

"You don't mind, right?" Jason asks as he looks at Whizzer's tight expression.

Whizzer softens under Jason's confused gaze and assures, "Just like the Doc said: the more the merrier." He jerks his thumb to gesture at the small tent, "But this baby is small enough as it is. He's sleeping out  _here_. I already have to deal with  _your_  feet in my face." Jason laughs, light and easy, and it makes Whizzer smile with barely veiled pride.  _Well, what do you know,_ Mendel remarks silently to himself,  _maybe the Grinch does have a heart, after all._

But as soon as he glances at Mendel, the soft expression fades, revealing a hard-set jaw and blazing eyes. This is the head of this silent competition that has been going on for weeks, and Mendel will be damned if he's beaten by a smirking chameleon of a man.

:: - ::

Initially, their contest was more discrete—their ploys were subtler, their insults to one another veiled in upbeat tones.

As Mendel watches how _easily_ Whizzer interacts and laughs along with Jason, he feels the faint heat of jealousy simmer in his stomach. It took _weeks_ for Mendel to garner a rapport with Jason and even now it still becomes stilted every once in awhile. But Whizzer has _charisma_. When he’s actually _trying_ , he can command an entire room. And for a large portion of the trip, he commands Jason’s _full_ attention. Similarly, Mendel gets his own bonding experience with the kid in. He takes him fishing and helps him dig up various types of bugs and lists off the different species of birds they come across. All the while, Whizzer watches enviously from the background, assuming the role of passive observer for once. And yes, he does have to admit, there _are_ several instances that all three men have fun as a group, but Mendel tries to refocus his attention every time he catches himself laughing at one of Whizzer’s derisive jokes.

As the weekend comes to a close, however, their unspoken rivalry comes to a head with tensions flaring.

It’s over something so _stupid,_ really. It shouldn’t have even mattered whether they went on a hike or took a canoe ride, but it’s the fact that Jason had to choose between an idea of _Whizzer’s_ and an idea of _Mendel’s_ ; it matters in the fact that it will give both men the first inkling of which way Jason leans towards.

Except then they both get a little carried away and end up screaming at each other in the middle of the wooded area with Jason watching helplessly.

“Stop!” Jason shouts, his shrill voice cutting off Whizzer’s cutting jab, “I don’t want to do either, alright? God, you guys sound just like my _parents_.”  Mendel reaches out to console him, but Jason jerks away, “Just—leave me alone. I’m going to get more wood for the fire.” He storms off, not listening as both Mendel and Whizzer yell for him to wait and not go too far.

“Look what you did!” Whizzer hisses, but the urge to fight has abruptly left Mendel. He flops down on the ground and looks morosely at an ant waddling in the dirt near his thigh. Whizzer continues to goad him for a little while (obviously used to fights with Marvin that last hours) but when Mendel refuses to respond, he simply slides down and sits next to him.

Mendel keeps his eyes trained on the small ant and admits bluntly, “I don’t feel secure in my relationship with Jason. I’m scared he sees me more as just the goofball his mom married and not as, like, an actual _friend_. I just want him to think I’m _fun_ , you know? But I guess I screwed that up. You’re in the lead now, Pal. Congratulations.” He lays his palm down on the ground and watches as the ant slowly treks up his hand.

The ant reaches his forearm when Whizzer finally speaks, “I’m afraid he’s going to wind up hating me.” Mendel raises his head to look at him and finds Whizzer staring hard at the tree line, his brow furrowed and jaw locked. He waits until Whizzer continues dully, “I stole his dad away. I broke up his parents’ marriage. Marvin would’ve never divorced her if he hadn’t had been _stupid_ enough to fall in love with me.” He smiles, but it’s different from the sharp, barbed ones that Mendel is used to seeing from him—this one is wobblier, _sadder_ , “I mean, I’m going to fuck it up eventually. He’s going to see me for who I really am and he’s going to _hate_ me, and I just don’t know how to deal with that, okay? Hell, maybe it’s better that he sees you as a dad. I’ll just let him down anyway—better for him to be as distanced as possible.”

Mendel isn’t his psychiatrist. He doesn’t offer Whizzer strategies on how to improve his self-image or try to coerce him into revealing his tragic past as to why he feels this will happen or just nod along and agree with everything he says. Instead, he bumps their shoulders together and offers him a small smile, one of which Whizzer reluctantly mirrors.

No, Mendel is not his psychiatrist, but maybe he’s starting to become his friend.

:: - ::

When Jason comes back, they decide to come clean.

“You heard me say I have two dads, so you guys were competing against each other?” Jason repeats incredulously, prompting shy nods from both men. He looks at them like they’re the two dumbest people in the world, “You guys know that I didn’t mean ‘dads’ as in ‘ _fathers,’_ right?” He shakes his head at their identical blank expressions and looks up at the sky as if seeking some divine assistance for these two idiots, “Guys, DAD stands for Dedicated Academic Disciplinary. It’s this stupid certificate you can get in school when you’re this ‘model student’ or whatever and you can trade them in for crappy prizes. I have _two_ of those certificates. _That’s_ what I was talking about then.”

“Oh.” Mendel says faintly, color rising in his cheeks. He dares a glance over at Whizzer and notice that the man looks like the air has been knocked out of him.

“You guys _aren’t_ my dads.” Jason tells them firmly, and though he doesn’t say it in an unkind manner whatsoever, Mendel and Whizzer feel gut-punched. But then he continues with a bemused expression, “Why would you even _want_ to be anyway? Dads _suck._ I mean, my dad means well and I love him and all, but he isn’t…you know, my _friend_ or anything. Not like _you two_ are.” Jason shrugs, pointing out with a small smile, “In my experience, parents don’t have a great track record for being all that great, you know? So I don’t think of you two on the same level as Mom and Dad. And _that’s a good thing.”_ Whizzer smiles in a way that projects his immediate relief at Jason’s words, but it takes Mendel a second to process the information.

“I can live with that.” He finally determines and turns to Whizzer, holding out a hand, “Truce?”

Rather than shake it, Whizzer turns it into a high five, “We’re cool. Just don’t tell Marvin, okay? He’d be crushed to find out that I don’t actually hate you.”

“Duly noted,” Mendel turns his attention to the setting sun, letting out a sigh, “Well, I guess we wasted our last day out here away.”

Whizzer shrugs, “We still have some marshmallows left. We can gather around the fire and tell ghost stories to scare Jason and then make him sleep outside the tent.”

Jason squawks in protest, but Mendel manages to keep a straight face and nod seriously, “Sounds like a plan.”

“Ignore everything I said before,” Jason declares sullenly, “You guys have been demoted to Dad status.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my justification for why Jason doesn't see Mendel and Whizzer as his dads made sense. I just felt like his relationship with Marvin was so turbulent that even though they might get along now, he's jaded by the experience. He wouldn't see Mendel and Whizzer on the same level as Marvin and Trina because while he's always had a strained relationship with his parents, he always seemed to get along with Mendel and Whizzer just fine. As a kid, he values friends over parents. But yeah, I had a lot of feelings about this prompt, and I had a blast writing it.  
> (Also, about two paragraphs in, I discovered how much of a stan I truly am for Mendel, so there's that to thank DemonicDetective for, too).


	4. Charlotte/Cordelia - Coffee Shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia tries to win the heart of a sleep-deprived, scone-addicted doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a lot longer than originally intended, but I like how it turned out.   
> Dedicated to WritingDoodle, whose amazing characterization of the Lesbians Next Door are a WHOLE lot better than my feeble attempt.

Inside the clear pane glass of the display case, the untouched, slightly burned scones mock her. From behind the counter, Cordelia stares bitterly at them and wonders how refusing to toss them away saves her pride in some way. She's surprised the owner allows her to advertise her budding catering business at all with these free samples, but it's not like she's stealing any customers away. Cordelia glances around at the empty tables of the coffee shop and feels a twisted sense of satisfaction that hers isn't the only business floundering.

"I feel like I've aged forty years in here," Whizzer, her useless coworker, complains as he lies morosely on one of the tables, removing his gaze from the ceiling to look at her, "How long has it been?"

Cordelia checks her watch, "Since your shift began? _Two hours_."

"Oh, don't give me that face," He yawns, sitting up and stretching, "I had a rough night." He mimics knocking back shots and—another thing Cordelia doesn't deem appropriate to describe.

"Oh come on, _gross_." Cordelia scolds him, though she laughs despite herself when Whizzer waggles his eyebrows at her.

"Marvin didn't seem to mind." He fixes his hair in the reflection of the dusty windowpanes of the shop and announces, "I am going on a hangover food-run. What does the shiksa caterer desire?"

"I already packed my lunch," She bends down to pick up her bag and drops it meaningfully on the table, "It's a new recipe I've been practicing. Gefilte fish."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, "But when you actually taste it and then try to 'discreetly' spit it out to save your pride, what do you want?"

Cordelia levels him with an affronted, wounded gaze before she buckles and mutters, "Bag of sour cream and onion chips and a chili dog."

Whizzer mockingly salutes on his way out, "Aye, aye, Captain."

In some form of rebellion, Cordelia unwraps the fish and takes a big bite. She can't help but immediately wince at the sharp, sour flavor and thanks whoever's up there that she had enough sense of her own incompetence to not taste it when Whizzer was there. _Too much salt,_ she makes the mental note, though she knows that the next time she tries it out, she’ll find something else wrong with it.

:: - ::

The sound of the chime has Cordelia snapping back into focus and jerking her head up from its drooping descent. She turns to bitch at Whizzer for taking so long, but luckily she stops before the words can form in her mouth.

The woman walks into the shop and seems to fill the entire room with her presence, the effortless, self-assured way she carries herself commanding Cordelia's attention right away and has her involuntarily straightening her posture. Her blouse and trousers hug her full figure with the tenderness and reverence of a gentle lover, but the full scope of her profile is mitigated by the long, loose white coat with the words, "Dr. Charlotte Dubois" etched onto the left breast. And she is so very, _very_ beautiful—with her dark-painted lips and lush, cherubic cheeks—that Cordelia doesn't have the mental cognizance to mutter a cheerful greeting like she usually does with customers.

"Hello," The doctor greets with a polite yet vaguely distracted smile as she barely makes eye contact with Cordelia before her gaze flickers to the sign above, "Could I have the triple-shot chocolate espresso? Hold the whip cream; that way I can pretend I'm making healthy choices." The joke is seasoned in a dry, sardonic tone of voice, and it makes Cordelia finally close her gaping mouth and smile shyly at her.

"Yes, Ma'am." Cordelia turns and begins making the drink, hoping the doctor isn't paying close enough attention to her to see that her hands are slightly trembling. _You are over thirty years old,_ she chastises herself, _and still you blush and sputter when a pretty girl looks at you._ She manages to fill the order without spilling anything and slides it over, rattling off the total and averting her eyes so she won't stutter or stare too long at the way her long eyelashes fan over her brown eyes. 

"How much for the scone?" Charlotte asks, causing Cordelia's heart to stutter.

"Nothing," She says hurriedly, licking her lips and putting on her best charming grin, "I have my own catering business. They're free samples."

Charlotte nods and takes one out of the glass container, taking a hefty bite like she hasn't eaten anything the entire day. Cordelia watches her expression closely, waiting for the tight lines to appear around her eyes. However, her face betrays nothing, and she even says with a smile after she's swallowed it, "Not bad."

And Cordelia falls in love right then and there.

:: - ::

After the doctor had gone and Whizzer finally returns, Cordelia tries to describe the interaction with casualness and doesn't mention the attractiveness of the woman. However, Whizzer's first question is the smug, all-knowing, "She was hot, wasn't she?"

"So?" Cordelia sputters, "That's not the point. She didn't hate my scones!" _I'm not a total failure._

"Hopefully she comes back," Whizzer says thoughtfully, explaining smugly, "I kinda wanna see the natural disaster that is you trying to flirt."

"Hey, _uncalled for."_

"Cordelia, you broke that one girl's nose at the park when you tried to ask her on a date," Whizzer reminds her, flushing Cordelia with embarrassment at the recollection, "We're not allowed back there now."

"I gesticulate wildly when I'm nervous!" She defends herself, "How dare you use my flaws against me."

Whizzer smiles and tosses the bag of chips at her, asking snidely, "How was the fish?"

She points a warning finger at him, "Don't even start."

:: - ::

The next day, Cordelia can't help but check her watch anxiously and hope that the pretty doctor would stop by again, though she knows it's a lost cause. Charlotte probably thought nothing of their brief interaction, though it's consumed Cordelia's mind ever since. Cordelia spends the next few hours idly analyzing each of the woman’s absent mannerisms during their stilted conversation, trying to discern if her eyes were interested in more than the cup of coffee. Cordelia knows that she’s reaching every time she points to the way Charlotte’s smile widened or her mouth twisted as evidence of interest, but it gives her comfort nonetheless.

Eventually, she lets Whizzer take control of the counter while she cleans the tables. She's so transfixed on getting out this one dark stain that she doesn't know of Charlotte's presence until Whizzer says loudly, "Coming right up, Doctor." Cordelia stiffens and flicks her gaze up, pleasantly embarrassed when she finds Charlotte's eyes pinned on her.

"Hi." Cordelia says with a lopsided smile.

Charlotte matches her grin, though she has a feeling that hers is a lot brighter and more manic, "It's nice to see you again."

"Oh, do you two know each other?" Whizzer asks innocently, and at least he's a good enough actor to pull it off.

"We met yesterday." Charlotte tells him, but she keeps her gaze trained on Cordelia.

Cordelia chews on her lip and opens her mouth to make stilted conversation when Whizzer over-dramatically (and obviously intentionally) loses his grip on the cup of coffee and sends it clattering to the ground by Charlotte's feet, soaking her neat, not-cheap shoes.

"Oh shit. My bad." Whizzer apologizes profusely, glancing over at Cordelia, "Hey, can you help the lady clean this up? I'll make her another one, on the house."

Cordelia gathers up her roll of paper towels and rushes over to her, leaning down and wiping the spill up. She feels a tap on her shoulder as Charlotte also bends down and holds out her hand, "Paper towel?" Dumbly, Cordelia tears off a wad and gives it to her.

"I never got your name," Charlotte says offhandedly as she helps clean up the mess, "I'm Charlotte."

"Yeah, I know," She cringes at the surprised look on the doctor's face, "It's on your coat. I'm Cordelia. Not a stalker, by the way."

"Cordelia," Charlotte's smile widens, repeating her name slowly as if she's tasting each syllable, "You know, I had a patient named that just the other day. She was attacked by a swarm of wasps, some of which went down her windpipe and stung her throat. It was terrible; her skin looked like marshmallow cream mixed with red food coloring." Her face tightens suddenly, as if she's just realized that maybe this wasn't a story to tell someone upon just meeting them.

But Cordelia just laughs, "Well, I'm honored to be affiliated in your mind with that beautiful image."

"If it helps, she made a full recovery." She says it in a way that exudes a quiet sense of pride, and it's this polite yet assertive confidence that draws Cordelia in like a moth to a flame. Charlotte is prideful not in the obnoxious way that Whizzer is but in a way that makes it apparent to everyone how ardent and devoted she is to her work. She has _passion,_ and Cordelia finds that trait utterly intoxicating.

They clean up the floor, but her shoes are still sticky, to which Cordelia also apologizes on Whizzer's behalf. 

"Accidents happen," Charlotte dismisses flippantly, "I will take one scone for the road though."

"Why don't you stick around and pick a table?" Whizzer butts in with a new coffee in his hand, "We could use the rare occurrence of someone actually being in here as free advertisement."

"I wish I could," She checks her watch and purses her lips, "But I have an extra shift in fifteen minutes. Another time?"

"Yes." Cordelia affirms, "And I won't let this dumbass touch your coffee next time, okay?"

"Deal." She takes her coffee and scone, and her eyes linger on Cordelia before she clears her throat and makes a speedy exit of the shop. As soon as the door closes behind her, Cordelia leans over and punches Whizzer hard in the arm, "What the fuck was that?"

"Ow! Me being your wingman." Whizzer rubs the blossoming bruise, "You're _welcome_."

"Whizzer, you ruined her shoes and made her help clean it up!"

"I was giving you an _opening_. If it wasn't for me, you guys would have just stared at each other like a couple of awkward teenagers."

"You picked the possibly worst way to get us talking!"

"Hey, I got you a coffee date...more or less."

Cordelia sighs and pinches the bride of her nose, "Why are we friends? You're _terrible_."

"You're also terrible," Whizzer points out, "We can't have nice people as friends. We scare them off too easily."

Instead of replying, Cordelia throws the roll of paper towels at his head, "You're on cleaning duty now. And I swear to god, if this place doesn't sparkle, I will spill coffee all over your pretty head of hair."

"This is why I don't help people," Whizzer grumbles, "I shouldn't go against my nature like that." But Cordelia has already stopped listening to the man, transfixed by the probably offhandedly _"Another time?"_ offer that makes her stomach twist in knots.

:: - ::

The doctor doesn't come back the next day. Or the next. Cordelia is thrown into a fit of despair that isn't quite justifiable given the fact that she's only interacted with her twice before.

Whizzer has the decency to at least appear apologetic about the whole thing, actually treating her nicely and not bitching when she forces him to take cleaning duty every day since the Incident. Soon, a week passes by with no visits from Charlotte, and Cordelia has more or less given up on the fleeting daydream of them together. It was stupid, really. There's no way in hell she was gay, and even if she was, why would a _doctor_ go for _Cordelia?_ She's a college drop-out whose sole passion in life is the one thing she’s _terrible_ at.

Whizzer opting to take a sick day, Cordelia is left alone one crisp Wednesday. The coffee shop has enough customers to keep the place running, but with _another_ Starbucks opening just two blocks from here, she knows that she needs to be looking for new work. It's just about closing time when Cordelia hears the bell ring. She looks up and sees Charlotte, looking out of breath and flustered for the first time.

"You would not believe the week I've had." Charlotte exclaims, "Can I call in that rain check now?"

Cordelia finds herself nodding despite herself.

And so she flips the open sign to closed (not that anyone would have come in anyway), and they flock to one of the tables near the back of the shop. Charlotte explains that she's been dead on her feet the entire week and hasn't had time between relapsing patients and extra shifts and volunteer work to do much of anything other than sleep (and even that has been elusive).

"You've picked an exhausting career." She whistles, amazed and slightly troubled by it.

Charlotte dismisses her claim with a wave, disregarding the heavy bags under her big eyes and the slump of her shoulders, "It's to be expected. I just transferred here, after all. I'm the rookie. Once I prove myself, I'll be less of a zombie." She takes a sip of her coffee, and Cordelia can't help but track the way her tongue swipes across her bottom lip, "But enough of my bullshit excuses. I want to hear about you."

Cordelia laughs her sudden interest off and begins picking at the wooden grain of the table, "Not much to tell. Small town girl with big city dreams has a rude awakening and is now stuck in a low-paying job. Now she’s too prideful to go back home and tell her mother she was right."

"You have your own catering business." Charlotte reminds her with a smile, surprising Cordelia by remembering that fact, "That's something. Why did you have to come all the way to New York to cook?"

"It obviously wasn't for the job opportunities. Even getting this meager employment was a pain in the ass." She bites her lip, thinking about coming up with some lie, but she just admits bluntly with no inflection, "I'm gay. And no one wanted to hire a lesbian to cater their kid's birthday party. Not where I'm from." She flashes a self-deprecating smile down at the table, “And New York's no walk in the park for dykes either, but it beats mandatory attendance at annual bible camps and old hags whispering about you in the grocery store." She looks up to gauge Charlotte's reaction, but she remains expressionless. Cordelia doesn't know whether to feel relieved or panicked.

"I'm born and raised here—Well, in Queens." Charlotte informs her, "Worked my ass off to get where I am. And I'll be damned if some pasty white bastard of a boss gets the best of me just because he's a racist _and_  a homophobe."

Cordelia wills her heartbeat to slow down, and it's a miracle she can hear over the blood rushing in her ears to say delicately, "Screw the straights, right?"

Charlotte chuckles, "I'd much rather screw the gay ones." Cordelia loses the ability to breath evenly after that one, but she recovers quickly.

"Tell me something about yourself." Cordelia blurts because she wants to know everything about this woman with flecks of gold in her eyes and messy hair and kind smiles and dry sense of humor.

"Like what?" Charlotte asks, looking bemused but not unwilling to play along.

"Anything," And she means it—desperately wants _Charlotte_ to know she means it—as she leans forward until the side of the table is pressed uncomfortable against her stomach, "Anything."

"I fall asleep to shitty soap operas and I hate rainy days." Charlotte shrugs, laughing at the ridiculousness of the confession.

"I haven't seen my mom in six years and I torture the cat who lives next to the dumpster of my apartment building by feeding it each of my failed recipes.”

Charlotte's mouth twitches, "I have a weakness for cynical blondes." 

Cordelia smiles and, overcome with the feeling of exhilaration, exclaims, "I fucking _hate_ coffee."

And they stay like this for over an hour, and though their lips never touch nor do they speak of the palpable electricity between them, Cordelia thinks she's never been so intimate with someone before.

:: - :: 

"I'm telling you," Whizzer proclaims as Cordelia recounts the cash in the register in a vain attempt to ignore him, " _Everybody_ loves big gestures. You need to sweep her off her feet—and I mean _literally_. In the most expensive way _possible_."

"The key is playing hard to get," Marvin refutes, "That's how I got my ex-wife."

"No, you knocked her up and was forced to marry her to escape the wrath of her scandalized father." Whizzer points out, rolling his eyes. As the two of them argue, Cordelia bemoans the fact that Marvin chose to spend his day off helping Whizzer antagonize her about her quasi-relationship with Charlotte in between reprieves of trading handjobs in the back room.

"Who actually has experience with women?" Marvin points out smugly.

Whizzer scoffs and plops down on Marvin's lap, ignoring Cordelia's indignant demand to get a room, "Who actually has experience with your version of 'romance'?"

Marvin is briefly distracted by the way Whizzer loops his arms around his neck, but he has enough mental cognizance before all the blood rushes to his dick to counter, "Hey, it worked on you, didn't it?"

"That's because I'm easy," Whizzer reminds him with a crooked smile and shrugs, "And you looked rich, which helped a lot." Marvin rolls his eyes but doesn't lean away when Whizzer pulls him in for a kiss, ending the stupid argument hopefully once and for all.

Cordelia glances at the entangled couple and feels the smallest tinge of jealousy. If someone had told her four years ago that _Whizzer_ would have a steady relationship and she'd be the one left all alone, she would have laughed in their face. Whizzer prided himself on not being tied down to one man while Cordelia had always been the hopeless romantic of the duo. It isn't fair that Whizzer got his happy ending while Cordelia is still struggling to get a second date out of anyone. She knows that bitterness isn't a great color on her, so she quickly tries to smother it by checking her watch and counting down the hours until Charlotte makes her now daily appearance right before closing.

"You have a crush," Whizzer mocks as he finally pulls away from Marvin, snickering at her like they're all a bunch of elementary school children, "It's disgusting."

"Oh please, not as disgusting as _you_ were," Cordelia lowers her voice and mimics his previous anguish, " _Oh 'Delia, he's the worst person ever. Oh 'Delia, I never want to see his stupid face ever again. Oh 'Delia, I fucked up; I think I might've actually loved the bastard._ " She knows that it's a bit of a low blow to bring up their break-up (it was the most vulnerable that she's even seen Whizzer, and she knows that it wasn't easy to get over), but she's more than pissed at the constant needling and mockery from Whizzer about the Charlotte thing. It gives her sickening satisfaction to see _him_ squirming for once.

Whizzer reddens and sputters, "You're making shit up. I never said those things."

"Not that _you_ remember, maybe," Cordelia says, arching an eyebrow, "You were totally shit-faced and sobbing on my couch. It was quite memorable for me though."

Rather than cause Marvin to smirk and gloat, the man starts rubbing circles on the skin of Whizzer's hips and actually looks touched. He forces Whizzer to meet his gaze and says quietly, "I was a shit-head."

"Yeah, well, you can't take all the credit, I guess," He shrugs, lowering his boisterous voice and admitting, "I was, too." Cordelia almost sighs in relief at the microscope being off of her when Whizzer pulls away from Marvin and saunters over to her, "But seriously, Cordelia, this is pathetic. She likes you, you like her—just make a fun night out of it."

"What if I want to make more than _one night_ out of it?" Cordelia demands, "What if she just wants to be friends? What if I ruin whatever we have now by pushing on the parameters? What if—"

Whizzer leans over and grabs her by her shoulders, beginning urgently, "'Delia—Sweetheart, Darling, _Love of My Life_ —" Marvin squawks in protest, but Whizzer ignores the interjection, "You are the most worrisome, pessimistic person I've ever met. She has literally been _waiting_ for you to make a move, so I need you to grow some balls and ask this desperate woman out. I am _dying_ from secondhand sexual tension. For the sake of my health and sanity, _get laid,_ okay?"

Cordelia rolls her eyes and picks at her nails anxiously, "What am I supposed to do, huh? Just pull down my pants as soon as she walks in."

"Yes." Marvin confirms while Whizzer vehemently shouts, "No!"

He looks over his shoulder to glare at his boyfriend before looking back at Cordelia, "Be _romantic_ about it at least. Since you're as broke as I am, I guess words will have to do in replacement of expensive gifts."

"Romantic," Cordelia repeats quietly to herself as she plasters on a self-assured smile, "Yeah, I could be romantic."

:: - ::

"You remind me of a coffee filter." Cordelia tells Charlotte as soon as there's a lull in the conversation, and well, so much for being romantic.

She chokes a little on her mouthful of coffee but snickers, wiping her mouth with a bemused smile, "And how is that?"

"You’ve become this _sift_ in my life," Cordelia tries to explain, tripping on her words but unable to prevent the word-vomit that spews from her mouth, "When I talk to you, all the shit aspects of my life are just— _gone,_ you know? Like, I look at your smile and everything just suddenly seems so _easy—_ my shitty job, my family drama, my doomed catering business. It’s like you somehow have this ability to take away all the nasty, crusty coffee grounds of my life and leave me thinking of only the nice stuff." She grimaces and admits, "You know, this whole analogy sounded a lot more sappy and sweet in my head."

"You're so _weird."_ Charlotte exclaims but her eyes are crinkled and her voice is filled with fondness, so Cordelia takes it as a compliment. Charlotte stares at Cordelia with such unabashed affection and _wonderment_ , as if she's been fumbling around in the dark for so long until she walked into this coffee shop and finally uncovered the sun. Cordelia feels a pleasant burn in her stomach as her heart begins doing flips. And before she can lose the nerve, she closes her eyes and leans in—

"Cordelia, I fucking _hate_ scones." Cordelia stops mid-way and opens her eyes again to reveal Charlotte looking sheepishly at her with a helpless smile. 

Frozen in the awkward position, Cordelia just says dumbly, "No, you don't. You've eaten like a _dozen_ of mine by now."

"That first time, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you longer," She confesses, having the decency to at least look embarrassed, "But then you looked so _happy_ , so I just kept asking for them and pretending to eat them? And I'm sure they're _great_ , but I just don't like pastries and I've been meaning to tell you but the longer I waited, the more scones you'd bring in for me to try and the harder it became for me to back up and admit everything.”

"You picked _now_ to tell me this? Right when I was about to kiss you?" Cordelia demands, bewildered and affronted.

"I didn't want any secrets or lies between us before this happened." Stealing her thunder, Charlotte leans in and presses her lips against Cordelia's. Her mouth is warm and soft—just like the rest of her—and Cordelia finds the rising frustration in her immediately melting. She sighs when Charlotte cups her face and depends the kiss, the once sweet kiss growing in heat and urgency.

" _Fuck_ the scones," Cordelia exclaims empathetically as they disconnect from each other to regain their breathing, "Let's do that again."

Charlotte laughs as she pulls the tiny blonde back into her arms, and even if they were kinda shitty, at least the scones helped get her _laid_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Leave a comment below and let me know if you want your crush to call you a coffee filter).


	5. Marvin & Trina - Finding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Breakfast Over Sugar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to Harry, who asked for more Marvin and Trina. I was actually planning on writing this scene anyway in the near-future due to my love for the song "A Breakfast Over Sugar" (from Finn's In Trousers), so I'm really happy that you requested it. As aforementioned, this is heavily inspired by the song above, which is the rawest exchange between Marvin and Trina as it finally paints them as two people who loved each other rather than the bitter exes that are depicted in Falsettos. I feel like weirdly Trina and Marvin's complex relationship is kinda under-developed despite it being a key focal point of the entire musical. It's one of the reasons I love In Trousers is that it gives at least a little insight as to what it was like before the divorce. I also just really love Trina, okay?  
> Enough rambling. On with the story!

Trina brings the cup of tea to her lips, her hand still possessing a slight tremor despite her best efforts to quell it. Her body is still suffering from the aftershock of last night, making her skin feel too tight around her skeleton, her tongue too thick in her dry mouth. Beside her, Jason wastes no time wolfing down his breakfast, the sound of his fork scraping against the porcelain plate echoing throughout the silent house. Distantly, she remembers a time when she craved silence—a reprieve from the baby's incessant crying and her husband's explosive outbursts—and can't help but envy the past for such noise, for the constant _distraction_. She would kill for a laugh or cry or even a _scream_ —anything to distract her from this hollow house full of hollow people.

Across the table, Marvin hides his face with a raised newspaper, which is admittedly a poor substitute for the mask he once wore. That mask is gone now, ripped away and shattered on the hard wooden panel of the den's flooring. Trina hates to say that she misses it, for it was the mask's lips that touched her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth for so many years. Now, it might as well be a stranger sitting across from her.

The muffled beep of a horn has Jason rising from his seat and slipping on his backpack, "That's the bus. Goodbye." Panic seizes her throat. She has the catch herself from begging him to stay and finish another serving. _Please,_ she'd beg, _just one last time? We can all sit here together and pretend just for a few minutes longer that everything is okay. You_ both _owe me that. After all I've done to keep this family together?_

But she doesn't say that. She puts on a smile, "Have a good day at school, Honey," and if her voice cracks, Jason is too busy digging his walkman out of his backpack to notice.

His footsteps sound like Trina's death march as he leaves the house with an absent-minded slam of the door, leaving Trina and Marvin alone with the elephant in the room. She ignores Marvin and turns to face it, the figurative animal looking more man than beast. He has wild brown hair and a cold, vapid smile. She wonders how she could have ever thought that smile offered her refuge. He was mocking her, she realizes now. Each time he cracked a joke at Marvin's expense or shared an exasperated look with her over the dining table, he wasn't being her ally. He wasn't being her _friend_.

He was _Marvin's_ friend—and even _that_ was just for show, the charade dissolving the second that door closed and the lights were off.

"We can tell him after he comes home." It's the casualness in Marvin's voice that nearly breaks her, as if they're discussing whether it'll rain tonight or what they'll have for dinner. 

 _Tell him what,_ she whispers quietly, spitefully inside her head, _the reason you've been coming home in the middle of the night so often? Why you sometimes have a limp that makes you pissed every time somebody mentions it? Why that sweet-talking friend of yours seems to always be here? Do you want me to tell him that I caught Daddy kissing a half-naked tramp of a man while his wife and son was supposedly asleep upstairs?_

She doesn't dignify him with the response he wants. She's done jumping through hoops and setting herself on fire for a man who doesn't give a damn.

Trina smiles, her voice airy and even, "Pass the sugar, please." He's lowered the newspaper now and watches as she dumps the sugar into her tea. He's never paid so close attention to her than he does right now as she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip of the sickeningly sweet drink. 

"I had a dream last night," Trina tells him, forcing him to maintain eye contact, "Do you remember that old yellow car your parents drove when we first started dating?" He doesn't respond but she barrels on anyway, her voice becoming faster and more flustered by the second, "Well, you picked me up in that old rust bucket, and I guess I was mad at you for some reason? I wouldn't talk to you the whole drive. But then, out of nowhere, the car just _floated_ off the highway and we started _flying_! It was the weirdest damn thing. We went to China, of all places!"

Marvin gives her a pacifying hum of acknowledgement that just makes her feel foolish for even bringing it up. He always does this, of course. He makes her feel stupid every time she opens her mouth, pinning that uninterested gaze to her as if to say, _Are you done yet?_ He's used her timid youth against her for years now, emotionally beating her into this pattern of one look from him shutting her up immediately and apologizing.

She keeps the apology from slipping past her lips and smothers it in her ribcage, reminding herself that she doesn't owe him anything. She never has.

"I had another dream," She adds—quieter this time, more in control, "We were lying in bed. You were actually _holding me._ You kissed my hairline and said I could have anything I wanted, and I said—"

Marvin cuts her off, his voice softened, "Trina, enough." 

But she can't stop, her words becoming an afterthought, "—And I said _I want you_. And you _smiled_ and said, _you already have me, Sweetheart."_ She laughs, even though it isn't funny—even though it's just about the saddest fucking thing she's ever known, "But that's not true, is it? It's never been _real_. We've been _playing house_ for the last nine years. And _now_ what's left of us, huh? Dammit, Marv, we're not even _friends_ anymore. When did _that_ happen?" She didn't realized she’s started crying until the teardrops began staining the white tablecloth.

Marvin always hated it when she cried. He looks away, ashamed of himself. He clutches the newspaper tighter, as if to shield himself from the truth. He's scared, she can tell. He likes to yell and puff out his chest and pretend to be a man, but she knows him better than anyone—better than his friends, his parents, his _boy toy._ She knows the scared little boy beneath his closed-off gaze. And as she sits here and stares at him from across the table, she's never been so disgusted.

"Jesus Christ, you can't go on as if you're _dying_." Marvin scoffs, emotion finally filling his voice, "You'll pull through this."

Trina barely hears him over the blood rushing in her ears, "I can't _believe_ we've worked _so hard_ all these years, and you're willing to throw all of it away? For—For _him_?" 

Marvin collapses within himself at the mention of him, his body uncoiling as the air leaves his body in one surprised breath. It's the first time she's ever acknowledged what happened last night, and apparently he had assumed she'd be too ashamed to bring it up directly. It's like he doesn't know her at all.

She wants to hurt him. She wants to make him _cry_ and _grovel_ and _beg_. She wants any sort of proof that he ever loved her. But it's never been about what _Trina_ wants. Trina is just some nameless side character in _Marvin's_ grand epic, a faceless wife without any brains nor dignity. Someone desperate enough to let empty words and rare, hollow displays of affection be enough to soothe their need for love. 

She wants to hurt him, but his victory lies in the fact that she would rather assume her role again and make this all go away more. She's gotten so good at pretending, after all. And she does love him; she never wanted to, but it crept up on her. She loves the way he laughs—how his eyes crinkle and mouth widens. She loves how his hand feels on the small of her back and how he brushes her hair when she feels sick. She loves how his hands move when telling a story, and she loves falling asleep to the rhythm of his speech and the comforting baritone of his voice. She loves watching him, and he loves _being_ watched. It's the foundation of their entire relationship. And sure, it's shallow and toxic and unreal, but it's _theirs_. They have a home here, within these walls and within each other. No man is worth throwing that away.

"Please stay," She whispers, swallowing her pride rather than her words, "You can hold him, too, okay? But you have to come home to _me_. You have to _stay_. I mean, would it really be _that_ unbearable?"

Marvin chokes out a laugh, shattering her with the admission, " _Yes_." Trina feels the chill flooding the tips of her fingers just before her entire body is engulfed in ice. The love she felt for him—however forced or shallow it was—dissolves right before her eyes.

She stops wasting time on tears. She stops wasting time on him.

Marvin puts the newspaper away and stares down at the breakfast table, letting the pause continue for way too long before saying lowly, "Finish your tea before it gets cold." Trina wipes her face and takes a drink, watching as he does the same.

He grimaces at his cup, "Pass the sugar, please."

And she does because she's always done what he wanted—no point in stopping now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FALSETTOS IS NOMINATED FOR LIKE FIVE AWARDS AT THE TONY'S, INCLUDING BEST REVIVAL! I wish this show wasn't as under-rated as it is. Best wishes to the actors with their nominations and fingers-crossed for the best revival award (though I hate to say that I have major doubts on it winning).   
> Also, just as an FYI, I am trying to fill these requests in order, so it may take some time before I get to yours. But given that summer is fast approaching, I should be working faster.


	6. Marvin - Visiting Whizzer's Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marvin has big news to tell Whizzer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Valerie.  
> This was already a sad prompt, and I made it even sadder :( rip  
> (Also, I wrote this in fifteen minutes as an excuse to put off my homework, so this might feel rushed and unpolished because it is. Enjoy).

He puts on his best suit and tie, one that Whizzer picked out for him years ago and said dismissively, _“Get this one. It’s not that ugly.”_ Marvin smiles at the memory, even though he knows that his brain is somehow getting Whizzer’s voice just not right. He can’t help it though; it’s been too long since he’s heard it.

He buys a cheap dozen of roses—out of spite or love, those two are one and the same to him nowadays.

“Hot date?” The vendor asks with a crooked, gnarled-tooth smile.

Marvin nods, “Yeah.” He feels self-conscious about the way the suit seems to swallow his entire body at this point, but the vendor doesn’t seem to notice (too distracted by the crisp ten dollars now in his possession). Marvin continues his trek through the city, looking around at the lights and smiling faces and wondering what could have been if they had all just lived in a different time. A time that maybe would’ve been kinder, he thinks, to the both of them.

His breath leaves him too soon on the journey, so by the time he finally makes it to the gravestone, he’s already flushed and panting. He feels Whizzer’s critical gaze on him, a biting remark on the tip of his tongue, and he laughs for the first time in ages. Not caring of the dirt beneath him, he plops down on the ground and gently places the roses in front of the tombstone.

“Sorry I haven’t been here in awhile,” Marvin apologizes, rolling his eyes and adding, “No one lets me leave their sight. It’s fucking _infuriating_. I don’t know how you did it.” He pauses, subconsciously waiting for a reply that will never come.

He talks about Jason—how he started a chess club at school late last fall and now actually has _a_ member besides himself. He talks about Cordelia and Charlotte—how the caterer is barely hanging on by a thread and Charlotte is running herself ragged trying to fix the problem that no one has the balls to talk about. He even talks about Trina and Mendel—about their happiness found within one another and how Marvin tries not to be bitter in the fact of it.

He hadn’t realized he started crying until he absently wipes his face. It’s then that he crumbles, empty and aching and so tired. He’s just so damn tired.

“You _bastard_ ,” Marvin curses without anger, desperation and despair coloring his words, “You had to have _everything_ , didn’t you? I had a wife. I had friends and promotions and a _secret_ , and you walked in with that smart-ass grin and cold heart, and you _left_. _You left me_. But even _that_ wasn’t enough.” Marvin looks down at the hospital band around his slender wrist, “You know, I much rather preferred the hepatitis.”

Marvin thinks about how Jason will grow up without two fathers now, and he wonders if this is just bad karma or a sick joke. Probably both.

“When I see you again, I’m going to punch you right in the middle of that smart-ass face of yours, alright?” Marvin grumbles, but his touch on the tombstone is gentle and reverent, “Maybe I’ll even fix that crooked nose.”

He doesn’t know what else to say and it’ll be awhile before he has the strength to get back up. Until then, he’s content with sitting right here, letting the breeze tickle his thinning hair and pretending it’s Whizzer’s nimble fingers entangling themselves in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (lol, I'm not good at writing crying, emotional scenes. Can you tell?)


	7. Marvin/Whizzer - Hungover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whizzer is "sick," and Marvin isn't helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to thatdamntheatrekid. This is the extent of me being funny (as you will see: not very).

“ _Whizzer_.” Marvin tries to squirm away again, but the clinging man tightens his grip, “It’s already noon.”

“ _So_?” The sleepy-eyed man whines, pulling Marvin flush against his chest and burying his head in his shoulder, “It’s the weekend. We don’t have work.”

“That’s true,” Marvin admits, “But I have to pick up Jason in a couple hours, and I’m not even dressed.”

“It doesn’t take you long to get ready,” He grumbles into the other’s skin, “You only have like _two_ outfits to choose between.” In retaliation, Marvin elbows him in the ribs.

 _“Ow,”_ Whizzer finally detaches himself enough to level Marvin with a searing glare, “Why are you being an asshole to me? I’m _sick_.”

“No, you’re _hungover_. Big difference.” Marvin pushes his boyfriend away and sits up, feeling his own headache sharply increase, “That’s what you get for drinking like you’re still twenty. You can’t bounce back like you used to.”

“Oh God,” Whizzer groans, pulling the covers tighter to his chest, “I’m getting _old_. Next thing I know, I’ll be wearing _khakis.”_

“Hey, _I_ wear—“ Marvin cuts himself off, “Ah, I get it. You’re being hateful.”

“Always.” Whizzer buries his head in Marvin’s pillow, breathing in deep, “Now leave me alone if you’re not going to warm me anymore.”

“I could,” Marvin rips the covers from him and relishes in Whizzer’s surprised curses, “But where’s the fun in that?”

:: - ::

 _“I swear to God,_ do it again and I’m breaking up with you.” Whizzer snaps, raising his head from its collapsed position on the kitchen table to glare at him. Marvin smirks but doesn’t call him on his bluff, putting the pans away with care rather than slinging them around.

“My bad, _Honey_.” He mocks, sliding another glass of water to him, “You want some Schnapps to settle your stomach?” Whizzer groans and slams his head back on the table.

“Go wash up,” Marvin suggests, adding helpfully, “You look like shit.”

“Still better looking than _you_.”

Marvin laughs, enjoying how the loud noise makes Whizzer wince, “That’s not what I was hearing last night.”

“You can’t hold that against me. You know I get extra-horny when I’m drunk.”

Marvin raises his eyebrows at him teasingly, “Classy.”

Whizzer storms out of the kitchen and finds refuge in the living room, huddled up on the couch with a spare, ratty blanket hazardously thrown across his form. Because he’s an asshole, Marvin sings very loudly as he cleans up and makes breakfast.

:: - ::

Since he doesn’t want to push his luck and end up sleeping with Jason tonight, Marvin butters up to Whizzer a little bit before he leaves.

“There’s some French toast in the microwave,” Marvin whispers in the man’s ear, kissing his forehead, “Eat at least a little bit of it, alright? It’ll settle your stomach. And try to take a shower.” Whizzer doesn’t respond, but Marvin can tell he’s awake but is just ignoring him.

As Marvin walks away though, he hears a weak, muffled, “One last kiss?”

“And you call _me_ clingy,” Marvin grumbles, turning around and kissing him. His dry, unbrushed mouth tastes disgusting, but the things people do for love, right?

:: - ::

“Is that blob on the couch _Whizzer_?” Jason asks as soon as they walk through the door.

“Yeah,” Marvin sighs, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Don’t bother him right now. He’s sick.”

“Uh huh,” Jason tuts, eying the empty beer bottles that Marvin forgot to hide, “Clearly.”


	8. Marvin/Whizzer - Pampered Chef Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of mistakes happen after Whizzer's third glass of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to chefwentz.

Apparently it had happened, like most idiotic things do, after Whizzer's third glass of wine.

"A Rice Cooker?" Marvin exclaims, gesturing to one of delivered packages, "Whizzer, neither of us even _eat_ rice!"

"I just got caught up with all the excitement," Whizzer tries vainly to defend himself, "One woman started shouting, so _I_ started shouting, and I was _really_ loving that red wine—"

"The credit card I gave you was for _emergencies."_  Marvin reminds him tightly.

"This _was_ an emergency," Whizzer barks, crossing his arms over his chest, "I was helping Cordelia out, okay? She was bombing in there—you should've seen the bored looks on those housewives' faces! I was helping—you know, get the momentum going." He sighs, shrugging, "And then I forgot to tell her to strike my name off the ordering list afterwards."

"You mean you were too _wasted_ and passed out in her couch the second it was over."

Forgoing a verbal response, Whizzer levels him with an icy glare.

Marvin tears open another package, revealing the _third_ blender within. God, this is _not_ good for his blood pressure. He opens his mouth to continue his tirade of frustration, but his eye is caught on the nervous, ashamed way Whizzer is picking at his sleeves and the anxious duck of his head. Comically, he looks like Jason when he's readying himself to be scolded. His anger is tempered, albeit only a little bit.

"No way of fixing it now," Marvin lets out a long sigh, resigned, "I guess we can pawn off all the extras as Birthday and Hanukkah presents." He kicks the boxes off to one corner and begins to walk away, "So, what do you want for lunch?"

Whizzer's incredulous, almost suspicious voice stops him, "Wait, that's it? No yelling? No slamming of doors and silent treatments? No... _fighting?"_

"It's not that big of a deal," Marvin shrugs, "You screwed up. We talked about it. What else do you want? You want me to threaten to break up with you over a new saucepan and bread machine?" 

A smile twitches on his face when he feels long arms come to wrap around him from behind, Whizzer's breath tickling the hair near his ears, "Jesus, you're getting soft in your old age, Marv."

"It's called picking your battles, Ass," Marvin tells him, reluctantly preening at how the other's hands paw at his stomach, "You should try it, too. Save me a lot of migraines."

 "Who knew I bagged myself such a _gentleman_?"

Marvin shakes the embrace off, "Now you're just sucking up."

"No, you'll see what _that's_ like tonight." His lower region stirs in interest at his words, but he refuses to be swayed by these pathetic attempts at achieving complete immunity.

"I'm still mad." Marvin affirms, turning around to demonstrate his seriousness, "You're not weaseling your way out of punishment."

"Punishment?" Whizzer repeats, a salacious grin on his face, "Wouldn't dream of it, Sweetheart."

Marvin rubs a hand over his face, "Jesus Christ, it's like I'm dating a frat boy."

"Hey, I'm being _sexy_." Whizzer points out, pouting a little.

"You're being _annoying_ ," Marvin looks around at the boxes and suddenly grins, an idea striking him, "Actually, you know what? Let's not go out for lunch today."

Whizzer raises an eyebrow, "What, you gonna _starve_ me?"

"Nope," Marvin picks up a random box and places it in Whizzer's hand, "All this new equipment is going to get some use. How about you make me something to eat, _Dear_."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, saying snidely, "I thought you hated my cooking."

"It's inedible," Marvin agrees, "But practice makes perfect, right? You can go get some pointers from Cordelia since she's the one that hosted the stupid thing in the first place."

Whizzer just stares at him, unimpressed, "Marvin, this isn't funny."

"You know what actually? I think I might drop by the Deli place while you start cooking." Marvin says, walking away and pulling his coat on.

"Joke's on you, Dick," Whizzer calls after him, "I actually don't mind cooking."

"Then this is a win-win scenario," Marvin opens the door to their apartment, "You know, you can call _Trina_ up and get some recipes—" He ducks out just in time as a metal saucepan comes whizzing right at him.


	9. Marvin, Trina, Jason - Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ciaowhizzer. Link is below.

So I made this one-shot into a stand-alone rather than an installment because I liked it a lot and felt proud of it. Here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11179452

I really don't know if I'm supposed to do this, but apparently crime is legal now (given the long string of robberies that I saw last night at the Tony Awards, amirite?). Lol, yeah, let's not even go there about the award show last night because i'm v salty, but that Falsettos performance was GREAT. That Great Comet performance and winning two awards? GREAT; honestly, it should have been more. And DEH scoring big? I'm proud of them. And that Hello, Dolly?

.....

Anyway, not begrudging any of the winners, and it looks like those people there had a lot of fun (I'm looking at you, Andrew Rannells). Here's to the next year of blatant snubs!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Also, tag yourself during that falsettos performance, I'm Christian mouthing "You have a boner" to Andrew.~~


	10. Marvin - AIDS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marvin is dying, but he finds comfort in a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Puglover101. Lmao, this was so sad and it bummed me out a lot when I was writing it.  
> Obviously Major Character Death.

At first, everyone thought the weight loss was due to the depression. Everyone also contributed the paleness of his skin to the way he locks himself in their ( _his,_ he corrects himself firmly, it's only _his_ now) apartment at all hours of the day. And the frequent shortness of breath? Well, Marvin was never the athlete that he liked to pretend to be.

But then one day, Jason finally succeeds in dragging him out of the house to attend one of Trina and Mendel's barbecues. The small gusts of wind keep taking his breath away, and he feels dizzy the longer that he stands, and he passes out in front of everyone before Mendel has the chance to burn the hotdogs.

He's always had such a flair for dramatics, you know.

:: - ::

Delirious, Marvin asks Charlotte if this had been the same hospital room that he was in when she first diagnosed Whizzer. She shakes her head, and when she tries to talk, all that comes out of her voice is a sob.

Marvin ignores her and looks at the flushed white walls and feels the ghost of Whizzer's hand gripping his like it did that day. He was always the strong one of the two. He didn't look like it, but Whizzer was the one that Marvin could always lean on.

"We have to get you started on treatment." Charlotte tells him once she's steeled her voice again.

Marvin nods numbly, pointing out half-jokingly, "I know the drill."

"Marvin..." Charlotte takes ahold of his hand, and Marvin jumps, looking over and wildly expecting the face of a dead man.

"They're in the waiting room. Do you want me to...?"

Marvin sees the dark circles under her eyes and the pulsing tendon in her neck. 

He shakes his head, "I'll tell them."

:: - ::

Surprisingly, Trina cries. Marvin doesn't know what he expected her reaction to be but it certainly wasn't  _sorrow_. Perhaps a stony acceptance or silent glee or cool indifference—but not  _sadness_. Not over  _him_.

Trina cries, and Mendel comforts his sobbing wife, and Cordelia looks down at her hands and crumbles, and Jason—

Jason sits still in his seat, a blank look on his face. He's the most composed of them all.

"Jason?" He tries to keep his voice light but it's a little choked, "Buddy, you okay?"

"You shouldn't be asking  _me_  that," Jason points out snootily, but his voice is strangled, "You're the one dying."

Everyone gives Jason a dark look, but Marvin just smiles. 

"Can't fault the kid for honesty." He says. Nobody seems to really agree.

:: - ::

They go through more useless tests and show him distantly familiar charts and essentially tell him that it's not going to end well.

He then says, "Well, life never ends well. It's always death."

The doctor gives him a look, "There are certainly better endings than this."

Marvin shrugs. Can't argue about that.

:: - ::

In the faulty lighting of his hospital room, each time he's in the hazy middle ground of awake and sleep, Marvin swears that he sees him.

He's always dressed in white and has his front facing the window, refusing to let Marvin see his face. But he knows the slope of those shoulders, the width of that waist, the style of hair.

"You dick," He mutters, "You can't even face me? Look at what you did to me. You owe me."

Whizzer doesn't respond and keeps looking out the window until the morning sun rises and bathes his body in a golden glow.

:: - ::

They all hover over him. Cordelia makes him eat salty, burnt food; Mendel pulls up a chair and tries to slip back into the role of good-natured yet eccentric psychiatrist; Trina holds his hand and cries and tells him things that he hasn't heard since she married him; Charlotte sneaks in some alcohol and has them reminisce about the old days of four unlikely lovers; Jason sits in the corner of the room and watches it all play out with a void, neutral expression.

When Whizzer was sick, Jason had been confused but hopeful. But then Whizzer had died and the epidemic has finally reached the news stations, and Jason knows the pattern by now. He knows that Marvin won't get better. He knows that he'll have to bury another father.

"Fuck me. You know damn well I deserve it," Marvin murmurs to Whizzer later that evening once everyone has finally gone home, "But how could you do this to Jason?  _Fuck you, Whizzer. Fuck you."_

Whizzer faces the window and doesn't engage him in the fight he's so desperately trying to pick. But his shoulders are slumped at Marvin's words, and that's how he knows that Whizzer hears every fucking word.

"I miss you." Marvin says quietly, "Let me see your face again."

Whizzer keeps his back to him and doesn't respond.

:: - ::

All his emotions feel so muted now. He tries to engage in conversation and play the role of optimistic patient, but he's tired of pretending that he isn't a dead man walking. Or well, a dead man lying in a hospital bed slowly going insane by seeing his dead lover.

"Are you scared?" Mendel asks him once, when they're alone together. It was always so easy to talk to him, even after everything had changed and he’d switched to his ex-wife's side.

Marvin lets his wet coughing subside before he answers hoarsely, "I'm terrified. But. I'm tired more than anything."

"Jason is acting out again," Mendel tells him, "He's talking back to teachers, won't do his homework. He just comes home straight after school and stares at the ceiling."

"He's mad at me." Marvin can read between the lines, connecting the dots between his wild behavior after the divorce and now.

"No," Mendel argues thoughtfully, "I think he's mad at God."

"Yeah, well," Marvin looks at the window, disappointed to not see the familiar apparition, "Tell the kid to get in line."

:: - ::

It takes Marvin awhile to get Whizzer to talk to him.

"You're out of your mind. The pudding  _sucks_." Marvin declares, earning a snort of derision from Whizzer.

"It's better than that shit fruit cup." Whizzer points out, his voice still sending chills down Marvin's spine. His back is still facing him, but at least there's progress.

They go back and forth for days, but it's more restrained and melancholic than ever before. It makes Marvin want to laugh and burst into tears at the same time.

"Turn around," Marvin always prompts, "Let me see you."

"Marvin, you don't know what you're asking for," Whizzer always rebuffs, his voice strangled, "Please, don't make me."

"I love you." Marvin tells him, "I still don't regret it. I won't ever regret you."

Whizzer disappears, and Marvin is left alone.

:: - ::

"It's 'cause you're a homo, isn't it?" Jason prompts, speaking for the first time since his arrival hours ago. Trina and Mendel had left them alone to grab lunch at the cafeteria, so it's just Marvin to cringe at the bluntness.

"They think that that's how it's spread." Marvin answers carefully, pointed in his neutrality. Jason nods, looking down at his hands. They sit in silence again.

"Father's Day is next Thursday."

Marvin blinks, ashamed at his surprise, "Oh."

"Can you make it through then at least?" Jason asks, a bitter smile tugging at his lips, "I can't handle the irony."

Marvin laughs, hating how it turns into a coughing fit. The ghost of a smile fades from his son's face. And suddenly, for the first time, Jason is crying, harsh and uninhibited sobs shuddering through his body and quaking out of his mouth. He's an ugly crier just like his father, his eyes puffy and nose gushing with snot.

Marvin is helpless to stop it, trapped in the damned hospital bed as he watches his son finally fall apart.

Once he's calmed down, Marvin beckons Jason to come closer, "Hey, Kid, I gotta tell you a secret."

Jason wipes his nose on his sleeve and hesitantly comes to the side of his bed, hysterical hiccups still bubbling in his throat. Marvin runs a hand through the boy's hair and smiles, still caught off guard by how much love pumps through his veins at the sight of him, "You're my entire world. You know that?"

Jason rolls his eyes but nods, smiling exasperatedly. 

"I'm going to tell you something that I haven't told anyone. Deal?" At Jason's slow nod, Marvin gestures to the window and confesses quietly, "At daybreak, Whizzer stands by that window and talks to me. He always has his back to me though; he won't let me look at his face."

Jason stares at him before declaring very bluntly, "You're crazy."

Marvin laughs, hysterical, "I really am, aren't I?"

Jason hugs him then, and he squeezes too hard and makes it even harder for him to breathe, but Marvin doesn't say a damn thing.

:: - ::

Marvin is so weak, he can barely move his arms without breaking a sweat. His vision is blurred, but he can still see the faint outline of a form at the window.

"Let me see your face." He requests hoarsely, more air than words.

"You know what will happen when you do." Whizzer points out harshly, "Don't be selfish, Marvin. Let them be with you when it happens."

Marvin falls asleep to Whizzer absently humming a song that he'd forgotten the name of.

:: - ::

It happens only days later. Marvin is surrounded by Trina and Mendel and Charlotte and Cordelia and Jason. They all cry and talk about the good memories and try to forget the bad ones. But Marvin's attention always keep wavering from the festivities to the boy by the window, his back facing the group. And that's not  _fair_. This should be with  _all_  of them.

"It's time," Marvin only whispers, but he knows that Whizzer hears it, "Let me see your face."

"No. Enjoy your party." Whizzer deflects sharply.

He feels a touch of his hair and Trina's distant voice, "I think he's trying to say something."

"Whizzer," He repeats over and over again, "Whizzer Brown—My Darling, My Sweetheart, My Pain in the Ass—let me see you."

"Always such a charmer." Whizzer muses a little bitterly before saying, "You should really think about what you're asking."

"Whizzer, Whizzer, Whizzer," Marvin repeats, "Let me see you."

" _Fuck_ , Marvin," Whizzer's gotten hysterical himself, sounding like he's trying very hard not to cry, "We were supposed to have  _time_. Which one of us fucked that up?"

"Let me see you."

"I love you," Whizzer tells him, "Fucking hell, why did it have to take you too? You just wanted a kiss."

"I wanted you," Marvin corrects, "Now turn around."

Whizzer turns slowly, the light catching his face and making him appear even younger than the day that they'd first met. Marvin's breath catches in his throat as he hears the machine flatline. Whizzer walks slowly over to him, his hands tucked inside his pockets and his mouth working as to not let out another cry. 

He looms over the bed and gives Marvin one last long look, "You always had it have your way, didn't you? Prick."

Whizzer leans in and steals his last breath away with a kiss. 


	11. Marvin/Whizzer - College AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marvin thinks that he has bad timing. Whizzer thinks that Marvin has /great/ time. Slight NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to PheebsHB.  
> Obviously, this is slight nsfw due to the concept but it is definitely not explicit at all. Obviously though, there are mentions of masturbation, so like don't read if you're young.

Whizzer knows that he's a terrible roommate.

After all, he takes up _more than half_ of the dorm with his stuff; he brings guys over and kicks his roommate out without warning; he has to have an obnoxiously loud alarm in order to actually wake up in the morning; and he routinely disregards the fact that he should at least  _try_  to be friendly to the guy who has an opportunity to smother him with a pillow each night. 

But hey, in his defense, it's not like  _Marvin_  is the best person to live with either, alright? His dirty clothes are always strewn on the floor and he keeps the lights on  _way_  into the night for studying and his dumb relaxation noises keep Whizzer up at night and he always bitches at him for the  _dumbest_  of reasons.

Neither of them are a walk in the park to live with, and they both make damned sure that the other one knows it.

"Pick up your clothes, Marvin," Whizzer snaps, kicking a pile of dirty shirts over to his side, "Just because you're a pig doesn't mean you have to live like one."

"I barely live here at all," Marvin bitches, looking up from his highlighter-soaked textbook to glare at him, "You kick me out so much to fuck strangers, I feel like I'm practically homeless."

"Sorry about that," Whizzer smirks vapidly, cocking an eyebrow, "Would you rather stay and watch?"

Marvin flushes but the disdainful expression doesn't leave his face, "You're disgusting."

"You always say that," Whizzer comments airily, "Be careful. I'm starting to think that you're really just falling in love with me."

Marvin makes a noise in the back of his throat, a mixture of incredulousness and disgust. On his way out of the dorm, Whizzer winks at him, smirking at how the flush runs deeper.

Jesus, it's just too easy to rile him up.

:: - ::

Whizzer  _swears_  the first time it happens, it  _truly_  is an accident.

They've been living together long enough that Whizzer vaguely knows Marvin's class schedule. That is to say, Whizzer knows when and vaguely how long Marvin will be gone so he can have some  _private time_ with himself.

On such a Tuesday afternoon, for example, Whizzer knows that Marvin has class and won't be back until one o'clock at the  _very_  earliest. This gives him a pretty long window of opportunity to  _unwind_ , as you could say.

Drained from a particularly tedious lecture, Whizzer settles back into his bed and just relaxes, tugging his pants and underwear down. Using some cheap lotion that he'd gotten at CVS, Whizzer wraps a loose fist around himself and begins to  _unwind_.

He usually doesn't like to make it long (quick and dirty has always been his style), so Whizzer gets himself on the precipice of finishing only around five or so minutes later. He's trembling through it, has already kicked the covers away and left him exposed to the open air of the silent dorm room. Whizzer is biting his lip and breathing hard through his nose and flicking his wrist just right every time—

He doesn't notice that the door had been wide open for the past minute, nor does he recognize the stilled figure in the doorway until he just absently glances over and sees Marvin staring at him, his mouth parted and cheeks flushed. Whizzer makes eye contact with him, sees the wide eyes of blown pupils and heady glaze and—

Whizzer comes harder than he has in  _years_.

:: - ::

They don't talk about it. After Whizzer comes, Marvin pauses long enough to get an eye full and then spins around and stalks off, slamming the door behind him. 

"So," Whizzer prods that night when Marvin comes back and tries to act normally, "You were home early." He watches Marvin's expression carefully but the man is pointed in his neutrality.

"Class got cancelled," He replies breezily, stripping down to his boxers for the night, "The professor has a cold or something." Whizzer hums absently, his attention briefly subverted by Marvin's biceps and the barest hint of inner thigh where his boxers had accidentally ridden up. Though he's a bit of an asshole, at least Whizzer lucked out in getting some eye candy for a roommate. 

Usually he's far more discreet when he checks Marvin out, but that was when he thought that Marvin was, you know.  _Straight_. Obviously his view on that has since changed because straight guys don't avidly watch other guys jerk off.

Marvin seems to have noticed Whizzer's obvious stare but is electing to ignore it, changing the subject by exchanging in stilted pleasantries, "How was your day?"

"Hard." The snide comment flies out of his mouth, and Whizzer doesn't regret it because Marvin honest-to-God  _flinches._

"I'm turning in early." Marvin retreats to his bed, turning so his back is facing Whizzer. It's pathetic, really. If he would just laugh it off, it wouldn't be a big deal. Hell, it  _isn't_  a big deal. It is, however,  _funny as shit_ , so Whizzer is gonna bring it up any time that he needs a trump card in a argument with him.

He himself thinks as little of it as possible, but for some reason when Whizzer turns in for the night, his mind keeps returning to that moment—of Marvin's gaping mouth and red face and stilled body and hungry eyes...

Whizzer opens his eyes and glares pointedly at his crotch.

Okay. Maybe it is sorta a big deal.

:: - ::

The next time that it happens, Whizzer pawns it off as an  _experiment_. 

He lets a few days pass before he tries  _deliberately_  to be caught. He knows that Marvin usually goes back to the dorm to switch out his books in between classes, so Whizzer plans the exact moment almost perfectly. When Marvin opens the door and gets an eye-full, he stills in surprise but doesn't look away, until the point that Whizzer finishes half a minute later and then Marvin abruptly leaves again. 

This time, Whizzer expects a fight or at least a  _conversation_  about it—maybe a setting of guidelines or  _time_   _schedules_  or something like that. But later that day, Marvin rebuffs any attempt to talk about it, pretending that it never even happened.

Which...yeah. Whizzer can work with that, actually.

:: - ::

It becomes a  _thing_.

Nearly every week now, it happens: Whizzer times it just as Marvin gets home, Marvin always seems surprised but not  _not_  delighted, Marvin always waits until Whizzer finishes before abruptly pissing off, and Whizzer has a  _great_  time. It's like an unspoken sort of arrangement between the two of them, one that is increasingly making Whizzer oddly satisfied but simultaneously hungry for  _more_. It gets to the point that Whizzer doesn't want Marvin to just—you know,  _watch_.

But no matter what innuendo or sly invitation that he throws at him, Marvin feigns oblivion, even acting  _surprised_  every time that it keeps happening. Like,  _honestly_ , Whizzer just wants to tell him that he can drop the act and stop playing stupid. 

Only, Whizzer finds out later, maybe Marvin isn't  _playing_.

:: - ::

It goes on for a solid two months before Marvin—sitting cross-legged in his bed and abruptly looking up from his binder of notes—blurts out, "I swear, I'm not doing it on purpose."

Whizzer looks up from his laptop, initially confused, "What?"

"You know," Marvin says awkwardly, making vague hand gestures, "The walking in on—on you... _doing that_." He sputters quite pathetically, a flush appearing at the base of his throat and slowly migrating upward.

Whizzer blinks, clarifying, "You haven't been interrupting me jerking off on purpose?"

"Of course not," Marvin assures hurriedly, "I'm not a  _pervert_. I just keep having bad timing."

Whizzer narrows his eyes, convinced that he's playing some sort of game. But he sees the  _sincerity_  in his gaze, the ashamed way he's ducking his head, the blatant naivety that Whizzer had once brushed off as  _feigned_.

Well damn. Now that just makes  _Whizzer_  the pervert.

He considers pawning it off and accepting the apology, feigning ignorance himself. But that isn't _fair_. Whizzer may have been imagining the false deliberation on Marvin's part, but he knows that the man didn't feign the  _desire_  so prominent in his expression. 

And Whizzer is tired of Marvin just  _watching_.

"You don't have bad timing," Whizzer tells him coolly, maintaining eye contact with the flustered man, "You just have a very predictable routine and timing that  _some people_  might be taking advantage of."

It takes a few beats before the confession sinks in.

"You've been doing it on  _purpose_?"

"In my defense, I thought you were smart enough to realize what was going on."

Marvin looks more stunned than horrified, so that's a good sign, "Why would you do that?"

Whizzer shrugs, "It was  _really_  hot."

"You're disgusting." But Marvin doesn't look  _disgusted_. He looks a little pissed, sure, but the way that he's licking his lips and covering his crotch with his binder...

No, not disgusted at all.

Whizzer slides the laptop off of his lap and casually strolls over to Marvin, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed and carefully tugging the binder away from the man who is currently holding onto it for dear life.

"Watching was fun though, wasn't it?" Whizzer teases, smirking as Marvin lets the binder slowly leave his grasp. Whizzer discards it carelessly on the floor and leans in, toying with the waistline of Marvin's ugly khakis.

"You know," Whizzer breathes down Marvin's neck, feeling the man shudder and gasp, "I think it's about time for some  _audience participation_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's a bad. On the brightside, I learned that I am way too awkward to write sexual stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a prompt, leave a comment below.  
> If you have praise, leave a comment below.  
> If you just want to say hi and brighten my day, leave a comment below.


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